“I do remember you,” Mr. Brown said. “Very well.”
I looked at his cane, my eyes so wide, and he shook his head. “This was all later,” he admitted. “A stroke.”
“Oh,” I said, “good. I mean, not, you know, not good that you had . . . You look well, sir.” I turned back to Zeke. “Do you know why I’m here?” I asked. “Like, can you guess?”
“Jeez, Frankie, yeah, I can guess. Here, just . . . come inside.”
The whole family kind of awkwardly shuffled back into the house, and there was this moment when I realized that I could walk inside and Zeke and his parents could stuff me in a hidden room and the secret would stay a secret. But then I remembered my mom, all those cans of pepper spray, this address on her phone, and I knew I was safe.
“Frankie, would you like some coffee? A muffin?” his mom asked. This was the first time that his mother had ever talked to me.
“I’m okay,” I said. “I drank a Mountain Dew and ate some Pop-Tarts on the way here.”
“Pop-Tarts,” Zeke repeated, like he was slowly remembering me, like he had amnesia and my presence was bringing it all back. There was still something off about him, the delayed way he seemed to respond to me, but I felt like that was warranted. I had not seen him in so long and now here I was. All that time I’d dreamed of bringing him back, and he was right here. All that time I’d dreamed of bringing him back, I guess I’d never thought about how, really, it would be me returning to him, making myself known. It was all very weird. And that was comforting, as if weirdness was the thread that connected us, all we really knew of each other, the way we made each other feel like the rest of the world wasn’t real.
“Ben, should we leave you alone, or do you want us to stay?” Mr. Brown asked his son.
“Maybe . . . I think maybe we can be alone. I’ll let you know if I need you,” Zeke said.
“Or,” Zeke’s mom said, “maybe we should talk to Frankie first?” She nodded to her husband. “We could talk to her and see why she’s here and then we could tell you about it.”
That sounded utterly miserable to me, just so painful, and I prayed that Zeke would not do this. I didn’t want a chaperone. We had always been left alone. Although, shit, that had maybe not been a good idea.
“No,” Zeke replied, “it’s okay. We’ll talk.”
“Well . . . we’ll just be in the kitchen,” Mr. Brown said, smiling at me.
“Eating muffins and drinking coffee,” Zeke’s mom added.
“What kind of muffins?” I asked.
“Banana,” she answered immediately. “Are you sure you don’t want one?”
“No,” I replied. “I don’t know why I even asked. I’m . . . I was just curious.”
“Banana,” Zeke’s mom said again, nodding, sure of herself.
After they left, Zeke gestured to the couch, and I sat down, and it was a really soft couch. I kind of sank into it, and my feet weren’t touching the floor, and Zeke sat on an orange leather chair that supported him perfectly. I tried to get resettled but the sofa kept kind of pulling my ass farther into the cushions. Maybe it was a sofa bed? I’m not sure. It was a bad position to be in, not the kind of furniture you want for this kind of reunion.
“So—” I started to say, but of course that was the exact moment that Zeke started talking.
“I read your book,” he said.
“Oh, wow,” I replied.
“I liked it. I’ve read all of them. They’re really good. I think I like the first one the best, because I remember you writing it.”
“I guess I kind of hoped you might read it,” I said.
“I did,” he said. He paused. “And you’re married, right? You have a kid. I promise I haven’t been searching for you. I . . . just . . . that’s what the bio on the book said.”
“No, it’s okay. I mean. I searched for you online, so it’s fine. I am married. And I have a little girl. Just one. Junie.”
He nodded, like this all checked out.
“And do you have . . . are you . . . like . . .” I didn’t know what to ask. He was in his childhood home. What was his life? Why was I so weird? I wanted this. I wanted to know, but now it felt so strange, to be close to him and realize how much time had passed.
“No, no, I am not married,” he said. “And no kids. No.”
“Oh, okay,” I said.